Search

25 February 2015

I just woke up, which is dreadful. You know what's dreadful-ler? People who BOUND out of bed. There is no reason for those people, other than that we need firemen.

My point is, I got coffee, and brought the wolves up here to be blog muses to me, which is not working because Edsel has left the room and now I worry that he's either (a) eating cat litter or (2) rubbing his face raptly and repeatedly on one of Ned's shirts, as he is wont to do.

OH MY GOD MY POINT IS--no, hang on. I gotta find Edsel. What if he's doing both at once? Ned will not be happy.

...Although it's true that one of Ned's old shirts was lying in the hallway, which means either Ned had a dramatic makeout scene with himself and threw his own clothes off, orrrrr Edsel dragged said shirt into the hall to roll his face in it over and over again, with big hearts with "Ned" written on them dancing around his fool dog head. However, after the rapture, after the lovin', Edsel went downstairs and is resting nicely on his dog bed. He seems uncomfortable up here, like he knows I'm allowing it but technically it's against the rules, all of which is true.

Tallulah is absolutely fine with it. Is lying proud and tall on the bed in here.

She's done the shaking thing a couple times, and as my vet told me to, I call her excitedly over to get a treat. She'll DO that, but still shake while she eats the treat. So. That helps not at all.

OH MY GOD MY POINT. My point is that Ned got into the shower not till 20 to 8:00, and now it's quarter to 8:00 and he's done showering, but that is late for him and it negates any chance of a little Ned action before he goes to work, plus also it makes me late, as well. To top it off I'm late for work. Lemme tell ya what I say when I'm dealing with the funky sidewalk. Lemme tell ya how to walk when I gotta do my funky walk.

I say shhhhhhhhh sugar.

Have I ever mentioned all the things I could have in my head other than song lyrics? Things such as maths or geography?

Speaking of wolves, I have to watch that show Game of Thrones for work. It's a long story, and anyway I don't like to go into detail about work. But, really, I have to watch that show. So last night I saw the first three episodes, and NO ONE WARNED ME ABOUT THE WOLVES AND WHAT HAPPENS WITH WOLVES.

NO ONE WARNED ME.

Oh my god, you can't expect me to watch something like that. Ned was downstairs watching his sporting event, and all of a sudden I was screaming and crying, watching this damn show on my computer, and by the time he got up here I was hysterical.

Here is the deal: DO NOT EVER TELL ME TO WATCH A SHOW WHERE SOMETHING HAPPENS TO AN ANIMAL.

Jesus Christ.

So after that, I brought the dogs up here and held them both on my lap and watched the rest of the show.

Before that trauma, Ned and I went to yoga last night, and there was just ONE OTHER COUPLE in the whole class, which I attribute to the fact that it MIGHT snow TONIGHT. This is how much people panic about weather here. Oh, there may be weather in 24 hours. We'd better stay in. Get prepared.

And I don't mean we're taking some kind of dippy yoga class for couples, like people who get couples massages or anything. That's always bothered me. Get a massage by yourself, codependent. I just mean that the other two people who happened to attend class happen to be married, a fact I know because I work with one of them. I work for a big place. But I'm the only person there who had to go home and get sad about wolves last night.

Oh my god.

Okay, I have to go to work.

Howl at you later.

JooooooOOOOOOOooooon

P.S. Oh! I almost forgot! Last night Ned went to the store, and I requested more lemonade, and it wasn't till I gorged myself on TWO GLASSES of it that I noted it contained grapefruit! Ned is trying to kill me.

11 December 2014

Last weekend, when Ned and I were at that on-the-streets Christmas celebration, we went to a store that sells vintage, and right here I'd like to apologize to my friend Kit, because I bought a vintage coat for $45. It's dark blue wool with big cool buttons and a cream fur collar.

Yesterday, at my 3:00 walk with my coworkers, I also had to wear a hat because it's effing cold, but the only hat I had was my leopard one that you all admired. Well. Some of you admired. Everyone who reads me didn't write me personally to say they loved my hat. The point is, dark blue and fur and then also leopard do not add up to an uncrazy look.

"I feel like we're taking my grandma to the Piggly Wiggly," said The Other Copy Editor, who can tell it to my hand. I am dragging him and about 40 other people to the gay bar Saturday night for an evening of dancing. Included in this group is Ned, because you know high up dancing and smoking dick are on Ned's list of interests. He put those on his dating profile.

Anyway, I can't wait, although after tonight, when I have Nothing to Do™, I have something scheduled for EVERY SINGLE DAY through Christmas. Some I am excited about: Chris and Lilly are having an open house, and Ned's family is having their annual bowling event, and you all know how well I bowl. I lob those pins. Bowling is the only sport I enjoy.

Well. I also love miniature golf. Really when you think about it I'm quite an outdoorswoman. I also like badminton. I'm practically one of those natural, down-to-earth types who wears Patagonia pullovers and Burt's Bees chap stick as her only cosmetic.

Seeing as we have all these important outings, Ned and I are embarking on a project: We are whitening our teeth. I know! It's a big undertaking, and I don't quite know how I'll fit it in with all my outdoor sports and Patagonia wearing, plus bowling. Actually, I just remembered, my workplace is also having a bowling event on the 18th, so I'll be bowling twice this month. I'm a regular Refrigerater Perry.

(I don't know any bowlers, and he's the first athlete I thought of. I don't even know for certain what sport that Refrigerator person played, although it must have been an outdoor sport because why else would he be named Refrigerator?)

(Was he an ice fisherman?)

Oh my god, anyway. So, while I was waiting for my antibiotics prescription to be filled at Target the other day, I saw a whitening kit so I got it. I announced this crucial purchase to Ned, who said he'd bought the same kit before his class reunion so that the whole school wouldn't be abuzz about Ned's dental enamel, then he never used the kit.

Last night, after I came home from my student--who asked me to ask all of you why people wear Uggs--Ned and I strapped on the ol' tooth strips and spent half an hour wishing we didn't have on tooth strips. I'll keep you apprised of our progress and you will be on the edge of your refrigerator, I'm certain.

I guess that's the most important news, although I have been wanting to alert you that last weekend, my coworker Bitchy Resting Face Alex had a terrible scare. Her dogs, one of which is a puppy, found some poison that the old owners of her house had put under the boiler, because apparently they hate boilers. BRF Alex spent a weepy weekend at the vet, and her dogs are fine. The POINT is, she reads my blog and comments, so I was able to say, "Poison is POISON to dogs, Alex."

And THAT is what matters.

Oh! (You abhor me at this point.) I thought I'd throw in a couple photos of my Christmas decorations. I told Ned I was going to do just light decorating, and our versions of that might differ. "It's very silver in here," said Ned, who can tell it to my hand along with The Other Copy Editor.

Nothing says Christmas like a table full of newspapers. Ned reads the paper every day, like it's 1969. I recycle papers every day, like it's 2014.

I got these brownish yellow Christmas decorations, too. What do you think?

I guess that's all I have to tell you, believe it or not. Today I'm having lunch with--CRAP. I just realized I booked two different people for lunch. The Poet and I were supposed to eat at the bookstore, but I also made plans to go shopping for eyebrow pencil with another woman at work, who has good eyebrows. Well, hell.

29 November 2014

I'm upstairs, listening to Ned watch football. When Ned has sports on TV on Saturday afternoons, it totally reminds me of the TV room where my father would be all weekend. Although I have never heard my father refer to the other team as "a bunch of sugarbritches," as Ned just did. In truth, it's kind of an excellent nonswear, other than the homophobia. I feel like men watching sports do not check themselves for homophobia.

Anyway, when my dad watched sports, people's mothers were often being called into question. One would often be romantically entwined with one's mother, or perhaps one would be the son of a not-very-nice woman. There was also a swear about the football players engaging in an activity that was first mentioned in Sodom and Gomorrah, so here we are back to homophobia.

Well, now Ned has offered to fornicate with the players; I just heard him. Now he's suggesting they go fornicate with themselves.

Goodness. Who knew football was such a sex-filled game?

Anyway, I just popped in to say hi. I'm off to buy root dye and more over-the-counter UTI meds. Don't ask. I mean, I imagine you already have the answer. One would think I'm a football player.

Now Ned has sent an entire football team to hell. I don't think that's very nice. However, none of his swears comes near the "sugarbritches" line, and I wish it'd make a comeback.

What the hell is a "first down"? Is that sexual? I kind of hope so.

Okay, I'm off. I think I'll talk about our good deeds project for this blog on Monday, when people are actually back and reading this. Right now there are four of you who know Ned just called someone not just an idiot, but a fornicating idiot. Seriously, do they bring condoms, these football players? It seems like they'd need to. Do their condoms have their team, you know, pictures on them? What's that called, when you're on the Indian team and you have a picture of an Indian all over the place? Other than racist. Is it called a logo?

Now Ned is up here talking to his cat. "Hello, sweet cat," he just said to her. he kisses his CAT with that mouth.

Yesterday, I schlepped over to Winston-Salem, for a change, and got my free facial. Well. It wasn't free. I bid on it at Charlie's fundraiser in January, but whatever. Anyway, this woman with sophisticated glasses and cool hair came out. "Joooon Giirdins?" She had the strongest Southern accent humanly possible. It was hilarious. She was all sophisticated on the outside and sounded like Junior Sample from the inside.

"Let's tauk about yer fayce," she began, so I told her my woes. She looked at my skin under a magnifying glass that can pick out each atom. Yeesch, that thing was huge. Turns out I have sun damage. Hunh. That's not possible. Pay no attention to the reflective mat and 0 SPF Ban de Soliel I slathered on myself all summer between ages 12 and 25.

Sun damage. Pfft.

Then she had me close my eyes while she wafted "thrieeeee sceynts" over my nose. I picked the first scent, which turned out to be lavender, and I am nothing if not sort of consistent sometimes.

Anyway the whole thing was lovely, and I bought some sensitive-skin facial wash that I just completely forgot to use in the shower.

Since I was in W-S, I emailed Dick Whitman ahead of time to ask if he wanted to meet at the coffee shop after. When I got no answer after several hours, I called him. After my facial, I checked my phone. No response. So I called one more time and decided to, oh, kill some time at the shoe store. Zero shoes and zero calls from DW, I called again.

"Hey, Whitman, I guess you never saw my messages, so I'm headed in to Trader Joe's. I won't be able to meet now because I've gotta get these groceries home." (We don't have a TJ's in Greensboro, and there was one a block from me in LA. I was sort of indifferent to it in LA and now I miss it all the time.)

I got 250 frozen items for $38 and was headed home when my phone rang. "Are you still here?"

.....

Don't you hate it when people don't listen to your messages and just call back instead? Why do people DO that?

"No, Whitman, I TOLD you that in my last message."

"Oh, I didn't listen to it. I just called."

.....

I like my angry new ellipses effect.

The point is, we're allegedly getting together tonight since we're both dateless. His woman is at some kind of How To Deal With Dick Whitman conference and Ned is at the beach. He texted me last night from the front porch of the beach house and we had a pretty scintillating conversation that mostly went, "I miss you," "I miss you, too." "I wish you were here." "I wish I were there, too." I did, however, fill him in on last night's Andy Griffith.

Oh, it was a good one. This man drove by and told Aunt Bee he could see aphids on her roses, and while he spread cancer-causing chemicals all over them, he charmed the housedress off Aunt Bee. Is it Aunt Bea or Bee? Anyway, Andy was suspicious at first and what I liked is he surprised Aunt Bee by coming home midday, saying, "I decided to come home for a hot lunch" and she scurried on into the kitchen and came out with a plate of food.

If anyone came to my house thinking I just had a meat loaf going for lunch at all times, they'd turn into a skeleton tout suite.

The point is, he hung around for days, that handyman did, and both got charmed by him (I have no idea where Opie was. Maybe rehab) until someone mentioned that for a handyman, that drifter sure had soft hands. This hadn't occurred to Andy, the detective, till then, so he got Sarah to call over to Mount Pilot and talked to the sheriff there, who confirmed that guy was a scammer of the worst sort.

Ned has as much fun hearing about this as you are.

Anyway, poor Aunt Bee. She should totally have gotten on Mayberry Match.com or something. Mayberry Grinder. Aunt Bee on Tinder.

Name: Bee Taylor

Turn-Ons: Pie, pearls and a hot lunch.

Turn-Offs: Clara's prize-winning pickles.

Looking For: No Barney Fifes. And no mama's boys. Looking at you, Howard.

I know too much about the Andy Griffith show.

I have to go, and I know it's a tad sick, but I'm glad to get back to work and see all the Alexes. But before I go, I do have to tell you I had a my-dad-and-the-pot-pie thing happen. I know I've told you this before, about how in the '70s, my dad was downstairs watching sports, as he did, and now that I know Ned I understand that apparently you must sign some kind of contract promising to scream the swears every five minutes when you watch sports, seeing as this is what they both do. It keeps the show on, somehow, like how in the Flintstones there's some animal turning a crank somewhere.

The point is, dad turned on the oven to preheat it. Then after that finally was ready, he put in a frozen pot pie, and you had to let it cook, like 45 minutes or something. No microwaves. He got hungrier and hungrier while he shouted his turn-the-crank swears at the screen, waiting for his pot pie. I have no idea where I was. Maybe rehab.

Finally, it was time. He ran upstairs to the kitchen, opened the oven to pull out the pie, and?

Splat.

The whole thing fell upside-down onto the kitchen floor.

Oh, I am glad I missed the dad tantrum that ensued, and have I mentioned Ned has the same charming temper?

Yesterday at Trader Joe's I saw the green chile tamales, which I had TOTALLY FORGOTTEN about. Marvin and I got them every week. Oh, they're good. I preheated the oven as I have no microwave (really? Is there really anyone who doesn't know this already?), finally put the tamale in, wait wait waited till it was ready, and?

Splat.

And instead of falling onto the floor, it fell in the crack between the bottom of the stove and the door.

Have I mentioned I have my dad's and Ned's temper?

An hour later I saw Tallulah's snout pressed into the crack of the stove like she was an anteater, chawing with her flea teeth to get each green chile.

13 March 2014

My iPhone, which I purchased last summer, has done nothing but give me trouble. Sometimes I wonder if they sold me a repurposed one and didn't tell me. They probably giggled when I walked out. The latest issue is that (a) it wouldn't charge back up and (2) it kept telling me I had no storage left. I didn't even put my EASTER decorations in there, much less Christmas. I was thinking of storing all my not-needed-now black work slacks in my iPhone, but I guess not.

The point is, I spent a good hour on the horn, my quickly dying horn, with Apple Care last night, and they determined (a) the power cord I have is no longer good, which is hilarious because I used to have dangerous wirey-hanging cords constantly when I had Roger, as he enjoyed chomping him some cable, and yet the cords continued to work. Now these cats care not a whit about this plug and it died, unchomped, anyway and (2) my whole phone needed resetting or something. Again. I've done 256 hard resets on that damn phone in less than a year. That phone has done some hard time.

After Apple Care and I yakked endlessly on my losing-power mobile, while we laid on the floor with our feet up and bottles of Pepsi with straws in then, I had NO phone, and no way to get ahold of Ned to tell him I was on my way to his place and please let me up in the labyrinth that is his gated apartment complex which apparently houses Prince, so tough is it to get into. I won't bore you with the details (as opposed to all the details I've left out so far) but eventually we got it worked out and I used Ned's cable, so to speak, to recharge my phone.

And after all that I left my phone at his house.

No. I never WILL get over using the Price is Right losing horn for dramatic effect. And I like how the most fancy, protected, needs-a-gate person I could think of is Prince.

Anyway, I did eventually get up with Ned last night, and we decided to pop over to this tavern near his house, which was my suggestion that had nothing to do with said tavern's spicy jalapeno hushpuppies, and hello WW points. When we walked in, some guy was setting up a speaker.

"Oh, this isn't good," we both said, being old and detesting bands when we're just trying to consume fried balls of bread.

But it wasn't some stupid local Captain Dick and the Portholes or anything like it. It was a trivia contest, and one of my young hot Alex coworkers was there with her husband. "Would you like to play trivia?" asked the guy with the speaker. "Oh, no--" "It's free!"

And that is how Ned and I ended up with a pen and trivia form, even though neither one of us remembered reading glasses, and please see above reference to being old.

"Pablo Picasso was questioned when WHAT was stolen in Paris in 1911?" said the guy with the speaker.

"The Mona Lisa?" Ned looked at me, the person who wishes she'd majored in art history but instead got that super-practical English degree and look at me now.

I looked at Ned in a way that a...certain female relative of mine, I won't say who because I don't wanna HEAR it from her, looks at me. The...certain relative can sometimes act as though she knows absolutely everything, and gets a very superior tone, even if she's saying, "Liberace loved him the ladies."

"The Mona Lisa was never stolen," I said, sounding distinctly like my...relative. "Put down that a Monet was stolen. That's my best guess."

"The Statue of Liberty has how many prongs in her crown. Five? Seven? No prongs?"

Ned looked at me once again. He'd answered all kinds of basketball and political Qs without even glancing my way, which, pfft. Has he not met my vast array of knowledge?

"Five," I said. Getting The Tone again.

The trivia guy took our ballet, which we'd named Team Henry & June. We loved ourselves.

Ned got all of the basketball Qs right, and it turns out the Mona Lisa was stolen in 1911. And? The Statue of Liberty has seven damn prongs.

"GOD, JUNE!" said Ned, getting his flared-nostril look.

"In first place is Team Lentil!" said the trivia guy. "In second place is Team People Making Out at the Bar! ...And in 397th place, Team Henry & June!"

"I knew about Madeleine Albright!" I said. The reason I knew Madeleine Albright was the first female Secretary of State was because once, my ex-best friend and I were paging through Victoria's Secret catalog at my mother's kitchen table, discussing the subtle nuances of Stephanie Seymour and Linda Evangelista.

"You two, who is the Secretary of State?" asked my mother, in what may or may not have been kind of a superior tone. So my ex-friend and I looked it up and went back to discussing Stephanie Seymour, who by the way still looks good. Does Madeleine Albright? So there you go.

"Wow. I've never played a game with you before. Turns out I hate it. Are you always this competitive?" I asked Ned, who was eyeing up the Lentil team to see if he could date one of those brainiacs.

"OF COURSE I'M COMPETITIVE, WHAT DO YOU THINK?"

And that's when I remembered Ned is sportsy and probably enjoys winning, even if all we're winning is the glory of a Wednesday-night trivia contest at a place that sells Jäger on tap.

07 March 2014

Yesterday was my big Ping-Pong match against Alex #4858493 at work, as part of a big Ping-Pong championship we're having for no reason whatsoever. She and I decided to have a practice round at lunch, before our 2:30 game. After, I emailed Ned. "Even though I've practiced with other people at work, Alex #4858493 and I had a good rhythm going. We hit it back and forth a ton of times, rather than once and losing the ball. We knew each other's moves. It was like good sex."

"That's wonderful, June," said Ned, who is over me thinking everything is like sex. "But perhaps what you didn't know is the point of Ping-Pong is to beat your opponent, not hit it back and forth a bunch of times."

"But it's more FUN to hit it back and forth a lot!" I said.

Anyway, at 2:30 I naturally had a work thing I had to finish, and I.am.sure., but at about 2:40 we headed down there. A coworker managed to film some of the riveting events of the afternoon.

Wow, did You Tube just give you EVERY VIDEO I'VE EVER MADE? Because that's annoying. Just watch that first one. You can barely see me, I'm such a blur of athletic prowess. The second one is something I recorded for Marvin's benefit, as the guy singing was being the instruments, and I used to tell Marvin not to do that all the time. We'd be in the car and some song would come on and he'd start going, "Chh-ch-ch-chhh.." and I'd be all, "Don't be the cymbal." Or "boom boom boom boom boom." And I'd be all, "Don't be the bass."

Anyway. My point is, I lost 5-11, 5-11 and 6-11. Which, you know. Shut up. Everyone's bracket was right; EVERYONE had me losing to Alex #4858493. Which is disappointing. Like bad sex.

In other news, and then I will get to Freaky Friday, this is happening.

That? Is not snow. It's all ice pellets. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? With the weather already. They canceled work altogether, so I can't weigh in at my Fat Club meeting, but I did weigh myself on the scale at work, which coincidentally is a Weight Watchers scale, and it said I lost another three pounds. I was so excited that I went over to The Poet's cubicle, where she had chocolate coconut cookies, so I ate one.

Yeah.

Anyway, I'll log in to work email, but I feel like today there's gonna be a lot of this.

and this

.Okay, are you ready for this week's Freaky Friday story? I've gotten a lot of them. Here we go. from Faithful Reader Tammy...

FREAKY FRIDAY STORY

My grandmother MaMa (pronounced maw maw) and I were very, very close. I was the oldest granddaughter, and she was the first person I would call whenever there was something going on in my life. MaMa was one of the kindest, most loving people I had ever known and would go out of her way to make you feel special.

She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer shortly after my first child was born. Being a nurse (even a 21-year-old, fresh-out-of-nursing-school nurse), I knew it was bad. So did she, although she underwent extensive treatment at the insistence of my mother and her other children. We would have long talks about the things she would miss after she was gone, and one of them was seeing her future great-grandchildren. She died in December of 1990...one of the absolute worst times of my life.

In 1992, I had just given birth to my second child, Holly. While it was obviously a happy time, part of me was sad knowing MaMa wasn't there to see her. She had been on my mind a lot since we had brought Holly home.

We had been home from the hospital for two days. When we got ready for bed, I put the baby in the bassinet at the foot of our bed and covered her with a blanket. Around three in the morning, I was jolted awake--not by the baby crying, but the feeling of a presence in the room. I immediately looked to the bassinet...and there was MaMa, leaning over and looking at my newborn. I watched her pull the blanket off Holly so she could see her from head to toe. MaMa had such a look of love and wonder on her face, and it sounds totally crazy, but I could smell her in the room! I just stared with my mouth hanging open for a moment (although it could have been much longer), then I said "MaMa?" When I spoke, she turned and looked at me and smiled...and faded slowly until she was gone. I got up to check on the baby, and the blanket I had covered her with was in the floor about two feet from the bassinet. MaMa's smell permeated our room. It was magical. Thinking about it now makes me tear up.

I have never seen her again, except in my dreams. It's funny, every time I dream of being in a house, or being home I dream that I'm in MaMa's house. The people in my dreams may change, but it's always her house.

01 March 2014

In case you don't read the comments, your old pal June, here, weighed in at Weight Watchers and is 3.8 pounds less of the man she used to be. I guess that week of being

HUNGRY

ALL

THE

TIME

paid off. Today the first thing I did was eat the giant chocolate-chip cookie Ned had at his house. I felt guilty but GODDAMMIT it was good. Maybe it's because I have kwashirkor and have consumed 8 calories all week, but that was the best cookie moment I've ever had.

Does it strike you as sad that I have, you know, cookie moments from which to pull?

In other news, I joined the Ping-Pong tournament at work, and shut up. You know I have as many Ping-Pong moments as I do cookie moments on which to dwell. To make things even more interesting at work--or ridiculous, you decide--they actually created brackets for everyone to fill out, so you can bet on who's going to beat whom. I am initially playing my skinny hot coworker Alex #3475658, the one I went with to that gay musical about being gay, and really, isn't "gay musical" pretty redundant?

My point is, as I gandered at everyone's brackets, a trend started becoming apparent. Everyone was voting for me to lose. Do you "vote" when you fill out brackets? Maybe the part where I don't know this is one of the reasons everyone assumed Ima lose to Alex #3475658, BUT WHATEVER WITH THESE PEOPLE. God!

"Everyone's betting on me to lose at Ping-Pong," I emailed Ned, who is supposed to love me. "Who is your first opponent?" he asked. When I told him, he wrote back promptly. "Oh, you're totally gonna lose to her," he said.

GOD! I stood up yesterday in my open office space. "I just want you all to know I am quite the athlete and you're all gonna be sorry you voted against me," I began. "I am a regular...Olga Korbut."

That was the only athletic woman I could come up with. Olga Korbut. She was a gymnast at the 1742 Olympics. She was not what you'd call attractive. Olga Korbut. Geez, I hope she doesn't Google herself and see that I said that about her. If she does, I invite her to come here and try to match wits with me on the Ping-Pong court. Because I am going to score many goals on that court.

So that's where my life is at the moment. Everyone underestimating my stunning athletic skillz, and 3.8 pounds lighter. Other than that cookie. Which probably piled it all back on.

I'm off to buy a bra, and this time I swear I'm not gonna throw it in the dryer, which is what I always do, and then I break a hook, and then I try to wear the bra anyway and spend my days getting teensy spinal taps, which let me assure you is less fun than it sounds. Sometimes it even detracts from my concentration on my Ping-Pong training. And I gotta stay focused.

"Be the ball, June," Ned told me. I feel like maybe he was less than sincere about his support of my new game. Wait till I show him and everyone.

"I was the Ping-Pong champion at Camp Cheerio in seventh grade," said Ned, who has to rely on his glory days of going to cereal camp, whereas my glory days are still ahead of me. "You can train me, then!" I said, growing enthused.

"Yes," said Ned. "Maybe we could make a video montage of me training you, and set it to Highway to the Danger Zone. There's no way you can lose if you have a video montage set to that."

It saddens me that the commercial before they let you watch this video--with nothing on it other than a still photo of Kenny Loggins' glorious blown-back hair--is for Miller Lite in the can. What does that tell you about Kenny Loggins? It tells you his glory days are back in seventh grade camp, that's what it tells you.

Talk at you tomorrow. We're going to Marty Martin's for an Academy Awards party tomorrow, so I will report on my red carpet outfit, which will likely involve my Ping-Pong Forever tshirt. As usual.

03 February 2014

Because I am covering several topics today, I will divide them into categories. Today's categories will be divided by Things I Know About Football.

A. Footballs are brown. I feel terrible about Philip Seymour Hoffman and his dead self. I always liked him. I read in the New York Times that they found two different bags of heroin, one marked Ace of Spades and the other had a heart on it or something. I didn't know heroin came in names, did you? I guess it's like wine coolers, there's more than one.

Anyway, I liked him in everything he was ever in, including Marissa Tomei. Once Marvin rented a Philip Seymour Hoffman movie for when his parents and my mother and stepfather came for Thanksgiving, and he popped it in and SCENE NUMBER ONE was Philip Seymour Hoffman on top of poor Marissa Tomei, in an endless sex scene. You have no idea how fervently everyone felt the need to get up and check on the turkey. Hello, comfortable.

B. Football players like to take out their teeth guard things and play with them a lot. Speaking of The New York Times, one of the things I got Ned for Christmas is a subscription to the Sunday Times, and it is wonderful to read that thing, and their Fashion & Style section buries the Living section of my hometown newspaper. Although I did miss reading about what they're serving at the senior centers across town in the NYT--those meals always sounded delicious to me. My hometown paper has THAT over it.

My point is, yesterday I read about Sarah Jessica Parker designing her own line of shoes and I saw these and if I don't get them my life will be meaningless.

MEANINGLESS.

C. They have expensive food at football games. I know this because Artie Lange is my Facebook friend and he took a picture of The Gluten-Free Grill and wrote "The pussies have taken over" and I love him, but I enlarged the picture and a gluten-free hot dog was $14. FOURTEEN DOLLARS. That's 5% of a Sarah Jessica Parker shoe!

D. Ned likes that Russel Stover guy or whoever he was in last night's riveting football event. Ned also likes independent bookstores, and they've just opened one here in Greensboro, and it's really lovely. You can get coffee or wine or pretentious beer, and sit in the window or, you know, actually shop for books. On Saturday they had the grand opening of it, and we went.

Official the-types-of-people-who-go-to-independent-bookstores photo. We walked in as they were giving speeches and reading the world's most annoying poem and Ned said he could not look at me, because he knew I'd have a look going and that it'd make him laugh and then we'd be the official disrupters of bookstore parties.

We ran into a few people we knew, including Faithful Reader and Fancy Author Jo, who is putting on Pink-A-Boo, before you ask.

They'd told us, during the interminable speech (note to people having parties or throwing weddings or opening a book store: People get bored. Take your riveting speech or performance or "let me just thank a few people" and cut in in half. Then cut that. Get over yourself. Thank you. XO, June), that we could adopt a bookshelf, and it'd have our names on the shelf forever, and you could pick three books to go on that shelf for the rest of time.

"What'd YOU put on your shelf?" I asked Ned. He picked the world's pretentiousest books: White Noise by Don DeLillo, Suttree by Cormac McCarthy, and then I think he said Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which I am down with. Jo said she'd put her own books up there. I said Charlotte's Web, The Secret Garden and Little Town on the Prairie. You can't beat books that influenced you as a kid.

What would you put on your shelf?

E. Football players throw Gatorade at each other like it's fun. Ned's cat eats my hair approximately 79% of the time that I am there. As soon as she hears me come in, she ties on the old feedbag.

thenk you, dad for breengeng home gurl wif six ton of hurr

F. They have girl reporters now at football games, and they all have long hair and a trifle too much makeup on. I know the rest of you had wings and seven-layer dip and so on last night.

Ned served a roasted chicken and four different kinds of vegetables. It was delicious. He made the vegetables himself, and bought a rotisserie chicken, and as he was cooking he kept announcing, "The chicken's done!" Isn't it sad when someone gets a kick out of their own self? I wouldn't know.

I guess those are all the things I have to tell you. I liked the commercial where the woman is a cancer survivor, and the Radio Shack one where the '80s called. What is this a commercial for? Cancer? Anyway I liked it.

10 January 2014

Did you ever see that depressing movie, Sweet November, with Sandy Dennis looking annoyingly perky despite the fact that she is dying? I just ruined the movie for you, and you're welcome. You've had 40 years to see it, so it's not my fault.

I watched it on November 1 in 2012, and the whole movie is about how Sandy Dennis dates one man each month. I'd had my first date with the Tall Boy that day, and ended up dating him just for a month. Fortunately, I was not dying. Nor was I Sandy Dennis, also fortunately. Sandy Dennis grates.

Anyway, as promised, because I'm SUPER RELIABLE, here's what I did in November while I was not blogging and you were sobbing into your giant pillow.

Crap. The wrong photo uploaded, but I WOULD like to introduce you to my new sparkly cell phone case. ISN'T IT LOVELY? Ten dollars! I don't mean that'll be $10 to look at my case, although I should have charged admission, so lovely is it.

GOD. Here. Apparently I must have cleaned the house, because my annoying Martha Stewart book was out. Like that heifer ever holds a cleaning agent herself.

I went to a poetry reading or a meet-the-author or some such thing downtown with my pal Jo in November. I should have just said I went downtown with my friend Jo in order to get the traffic from searches from pervs.

I got there early so what was I to do but pop into my friend Kit's vintage store?

Where I found these, and slapped them on right over my tights. I was in love in the way that makes you shaky. Like the first time I saw Tallulah.

"What am I to do? I love the shoes. I must have the shoes. I should not buy the shoes. I MUST HAVE THE SHOES!!!"

Here's the next night, at Ned's, where I took 9494593939 photos of my shoes.

For reals.

I have failed to mention to you that my health has been poor, I've been feeling poorly, since September. I think the construction at work did not help, with the dust and the glue and the PAINT, but I started to get migraines almost every day for awhile, there. The day after the fair in October? I had the WORST MIGRAINE EVER. I even had to go to the ER and Ned sat there with me, helpless.

I finally got a series of shots and more steroids and a new prescription and finally the daily migraines stopped after six fun weeks. The very day I felt better, I also felt a cold coming on.

Dudes.

That cold was RIDICULOUS. In fact, I think it was the flu. I say this because of the part where all I could do was fall into a dead, sweaty sleep and wake up like a toddler with my hair in damp curls on my forehead. Then Ned caught it and he missed three days of work. Oh, we were pretty.

To make matters worse, a woman I know had been diagnosed with gall bladder cancer, and I went to the Chinese place to get hot and sour soup and I saw her husband. He told me she was in hospice, and I had no idea things were that bad. I called my friend, and she said DO NOT COME HERE WITH THAT COLD, so I did not, but I promised to make her family macaroni and cheese, NOT KRAFT but a real recipe.

Dudes, that cold or whatever it was TOOK FOREVER, and 10 days later I finally rallied. The day--THE VERY DAY--I started to feel human again, I said, "I'll go for a run, then go to the store and get the macaroni and cheese stuff for my friend."

I know I blogged at you in November, when I came back here and blogged that one time, that I was training for a half-marathon.

I was excited to get back out and run again, as my training had been going well, and Edsel liked running with me. I'd been taking turns with the dogs, but one day I put the leash on Lu, and she was all smell lu, edzul and Edsel was all fit to be tied, and you think I'm anthropomorphizing these dogs but I'm telling you it was a competition, who got to go with me. Anyway on that day we got out to the driveway and Lu was all, let do dis and she had one foot up like a flamingo. I picked up the dangling foot and she said EEEEEEEEEEEE! and I knew she'd stepped on something dumb in the back yard as she sometimes does.

"Lu, you can't run with me. You hurt your foot." But she was all, yes lu can, and trying to pull for forward with three feets. Poor Lu. So anyway, on the day I was finally getting well again I took Eds.

Forunately, on that day, the Tall Boy was over, too. He was headed to his girlfriend's house, but I left before he did as he was in the middle of something or other. I think he was fixing my window. Hoo care. The point is, it was a beautiful night, and my run was going great, and it started to get dark so I jumped onto the sidewalk.

That was a mistake.

Because it all happened so fast that I actually don't KNOW what happened, but as far as I can tell, I hit the unevenness of pavement and where grass starts. All I know for sure, as Oprah would say, is

BOOM

I hit the ground so hard and so fast it was like I'd been pushed. All of a sudden I was on a lawn, splayed out there like a tipped-over yard sign. If I were a yard sign, what would I be? Maybe one of those warnings not to break in because there's an alarm inside, which you always know is bullshit.

The point is, I was stunned, then OH MY GOD in pain. The pain. THE PAIN!!!

I'd let go of Edsel's leash, but there he was, hovering over me as he is wont to do. "It's okay, Edsel," said to him, although I was way scareder than he was. I tried to use him to help myself up but no. There was no getting up, and there's just no getting over you.

Thank GOD I knew the Tall Boy was still at my house, because Ned was in bed with the very cold I'd just gotten over, and he would have had to schlep over anyway. But the TB drove the few blocks to where I was, and literally had to lift me into the car.

So, I had a sprained ankle and a bruise the size of my head on the other knee, and my wrists were strained. In general it was a good time. And my ankle is STILL NOT RIGHT. Yes, I've had it xrayed. Anyway, you know those inspirational stories where people get up and run again?

Not me. I am an inspiration to no one. Will never run again. And my friend never got her mac and cheese because I am horrible.

Here was most of my November, and I specifically picked an ungory shot of my foot. I was pretty bad, though, trust me.

This injury ended up meaning that Ned and I weren't able to go to Michigan for Thanksgiving as we'd planned. My foot was supposed to stay elevated, and 13 hours in the car NOT elevating it was bad, PLUS the weather was going to be dreadful the entire drive.

So we made reservations at one of the fancy hotels here, and had dinner and went to that nice lesbian movie I told you about, and had several days off together and really it was one of the best Thanksgivings we've ever had. It was great! The only drawback was, no leftovers. But considering all the exercise I could do at that time was crutch to the car and back, that might have been a good thing. As Martha Stewart would say.

25 March 2013

I was extra busy sleeping this morning, so I didn't blog. I only got in eight-and-a-half hours, and I know you're wondering, "God, how does she do it all?" Cause I mean, after that brief rest, after that if-you-wanna-call-that-SLEEP sleep, I had to flurp some kibble into FOUR BOWLS before my six-minute commute to fake work.

I've been making up a lot of words lately. I've been onomatopoeeing all over myself.

At any rate, Ned continued to, you know, recover from his major oral surgery and not get dry sockets, although he DID make the mistake of asking me what they DO when you get dry sockets, and I told him, and then he was all STOP STOP STOP DON'T WANNA HEAR ANY MORE STOP.

The good news is, he was well enough to go with me Saturday to go partayy with Dick Whitman and one of DW's friends, who did not want her picture on my blog and who can figure that kind of thing out? What do you mean, privacy and dignity? Do not get.

Anyway, here's Dick Whitman holding some kind of chalice of girly drink, and you may think this is blurry but I'll have you know it was PITCH BLACK in that bar, so the fact that I got ANY picture at ALL is saying something.

Ned had scotch on the rocks, and I really think he may be the most manly person I have ever dated. Also, the part where there's a hole in the table, near his manly drink? Led me to tell him yet another plot of a Sex and the City episode: the one where Aiden makes the love seat, and it has a flaw, and Carrie uses the example of the flaw in the wood to get him to not break up with her despite the part where she'd been humping Mr. Big.

Spoiler alert. Thirteen-year-old spoiler alert.

But Aiden would have none of it. Till he came back, that is.

Spoiler al--oh screw it.

My point is, someone may be over hearing about every plot of Sex and the City.

But in my defense, I believe I sat through three, or maybe four, basketball games this weekend.

Don't you love that picture? How bored with me is Ned? I have always kind of been like a prize in the Cracker Jack. Novel, kind of cheap, and you're over it before too long. Marvin was the only person who kept for 16 years his 100% plastic magnifying glass that magnifies .008 of an inch of something. His temporary tattoo that doesn't all transfer onto your skin.

His bird whistle that doesn't quite blow. So to speak.

Despite this depressing image of us, things are going very well with Ned, who by the way I like. Yesterday we schlepped BACK TO WINSTON-SALEM, for the THIRD TIME THIS WEEK, to go to my friend Charlie's fundraiser.

And oh, with the rain. To say it was raining would be to say I have a bit of hair. To say there was a downpour would be like saying sometimes Edsel is enthusiastic. To say we had some precipitation would be like saying Hulk is fond of sports.

You get my drift. You see my point.

Eyeriss not. She not see poynt. Thank for bringeeng up again.

God. Iris makes everything about her.

So it was raining, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down, and Ned was driving, which means we had no GPS, and we kept SLIDING all over the dang road, and sometimes we couldn't see because the whole windshield was WET WET WET HELLO RAIN WET, and then we got there and couldn't find the place.

I mean we just couldn't.

The exit I wrote down did not exist, and we drove near where we thought it might be, and the rain was raining and the slidey was sliding and after awhile we gave up and went to a restaurant for some soup.

And I do not know what to tell you, but for some reason we stayed there for hours, although the part where there was a TV on with ding-dang sports may have had something to do with it, and waiting for the rain to cease was another part, but we ordered food TWICE, we were there so long, talking and sporting-event-ing and people watching and so on. We saw a shift change of the staff. I mean, we were a part of that restaurant. And it became a part of us.

I emailed Charlie AND his girlfriend today, to see if he has PayPal, and if not, Ima send your donations to his house directly. I am sad I couldn't find it. Part of the day's events included contra dancing, and I wore a swingy skirt for just that reason, and I even YouTubed a how-to-contra-dance video and made Edsel practice with me. He is terrible at dosey do-ing.

Oh! And speaking of sporting events, at fake work we're doing that bracket thing? That apparently people do when it's basketball-y out? And Ned filled mine out for me, and I got to pick who wins the whole thing so naturally I picked Michigan State, because I went to school there, though Ned had to ask me, "Do you want to pick Michigan State?" because of course I had no idea they were participating in this thing and my point is today I got an email and I am in the lead, over everyone here at work.

Dying.

I think I stand to win $800,000 or something. Am so gonna get rich and get all Real Housewife of Greensboro on your asses.

Which, ooooooo! Season finale tonight! And reunion show! BEST NIGHT EVER! I cannot wait. Maybe I'll call Ned after and run it down for him. Do you think I'll get the crossy-arms-stony-look again?

I have to eat something for lunch and get back on the road to commute to the office again. I mean, she commutes, she blogs at lunch, she operates on 8.5 hours of sleep--she's like the Enjoli commercial. What a wonder woman.